


Nomad

by flowerfan



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Band Fic, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lead singer!Bucky, M/M, Modern AU, appearances from various other MCU characters, no powers, past abusive relationship, pining!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-10 00:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerfan/pseuds/flowerfan
Summary: Steve and Bucky have been making music together since they were teenagers, and now their band, Nomad, is finally taking off.  But Bucky’s moody, and Steve can’t stop pining.  Steve just hopes that going on tour will restore their friendship to its former glory, and maybe, if he’s really lucky, something more.





	1. Intro

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art for 'Nomad' - flowerfan's story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14722226) by [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific). 



> Huge thanks to mific, for creating the art that inspired me to write the bus tour/pining fic I’ve always dreamed about, and then created a second piece of beautiful artwork apparently by reading my mind once again – she’s apparently channeling the same pining!Steve feels as I am, and I am forever grateful. Thanks as well to my awesome beta, perry_avenue, and the mods of the CapRBB for organizing this fantastic challenge.

Chapter 1 – Intro

The Shield and Star gave up all attempts to be a faux English pub sometime back in the 90’s, instead changing with the times and trends and whatever theme struck the current owner’s fancy. Right now, the vibe falls somewhere between beanie-wearing hipster and a place with overly sticky floors. But the one thing the Shield and Star always has, whatever the year, is great music.

The Shield is where Nomad got its start, back when it was just Bucky and Steve picking out tunes after school. At four in the afternoon the smell of beer was simply stale and sour, but they didn’t notice, Steve proudly strumming four chords over and over, and Bucky charming the bored patrons with his movie star smile.

Most college kids had better things to do with their time, sports or debate or some horrible young entrepreneurs club. They had friends that fit the bill - strivers anxious to plan for the future, dreaming of fancy suits and expensive martinis. But it had never been that way for Bucky and Steve, not since they were dumb kids actually practicing their band instruments between lessons. All they cared about was music.

And, maybe, in a certain way, each other.

At least that’s what Steve hopes. In his less dramatic moments, he doesn’t doubt that Bucky cares for him – they are best friends, inseparable, everyone knows it. And if they don’t, Bucky is quick to tell them – “here’s Steve, my best pal” – wrapping his arm around Steve’s shoulder, giving him a quick half-hug before releasing him back to the world. 

Steve likes that better than when Bucky introduces him as his “oldest friend,” which has less of a meaningful ring to it; Steve could just be his oldest friend by the accident of having met on the playground when they were six, when the fact that they had the same sneakers had been enough to endear them to each other.

It’s hard to believe, standing here watching the crowd cheer as Bucky picks up the mic, how long they’ve been making music together. Bucky and Steve starting performing as Nomad in college, but it wasn’t until several years after graduation, when they added Nat and Sam, that things started to really pick up for them. Nat had a day job back then – still does – and her boss knew someone in the music business, and one day a balding guy with a mild smile showed up at one of their rehearsals with a proposition for them. As they say, it was an offer they couldn’t refuse.

Before they knew it, they had gigs in venues bigger than a breadbox. Natasha started singing with Bucky, and she played lead guitar better than either of them, so Steve traded his guitar for a bass. Sam’s drumming had a reputation of its own before he joined Nomad, and it gave their music a new depth and excitement. When Coulson suggested that they record an album, Bucky and Steve – and sometimes Natasha, and sometimes her friend Clint – stayed up all night for weeks writing new music. 

It was heartbreaking work, sometimes. Steve could spend hours on a single line, a single turn of phrase, only to have to discard it when it didn’t fit anywhere. Other times were the best moments of his life – when it was just him and Bucky, still awake as the sun was rising, the words and music flowing out of them both, weaving and spinning and giving birth to poetry right before their eyes.

Finally, after almost a year, they had enough music for an album. More than enough, really. Coulson rented them a studio, and they bled onto its floors, over and over until it was all perfect. 

When it came time to decide on a name for their very first album, they didn’t have to think about it at all. Entirely lacking in humility, they did what so many great bands have done – they went the eponymous route.

While no one was going to confuse Nomad for The Clash or Led Zeppelin, Coulson’s marketing had done its job, and they had a sizable following from their time gigging all over the five boroughs. Sam was a wizard with social media, and under Coulson’s tutelage they had all learned how to manage their images online. 

As a result, their very first album was a respectable success. It earned them enough money to do it all over again.

The second round of song-writing was different. Looking back on it, Steve knows this is where things started to fall to shit, even before he messed things up with Bucky. Not that their current less-than-ideal frame of mind is obvious to the outside world – hell, he’s not sure it’s obvious to anyone but himself. But the effortless harmony he used to have with Bucky is gone, and the whole band is out of synch.

During the torturous fourteen months they spent writing ten new songs, Natasha and Clint started dating, fell in love, pledged their eternal devotion (or, at least, Clint did), and broke up. Rinse and repeat, two more times.

Perhaps to distract herself, Nat took to spending her free time at Bucky and Steve’s apartment. She spent a full month lounging on top of Bucky, a leg thrown over his while they watched movies on the couch, always offering to rub his shoulders or paint his nails. Then, suddenly, as if she had been just practicing for a role in a play she failed to get, she stopped, and went back to her regular, slightly stoic, cynical, and not at all touchy-feely self. It was weird.

Now, Steve pushes those thoughts aside and sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. His view from his spot in a back corner of the bar isn’t perfect, but he can clearly see the group of excited fans buzzing around Bucky. Bucky jumps up on the small stage and makes the announcement they have all been waiting for – Nomad is going on tour. The crowd cheers, and Steve can’t help but grin. It’s good news, regardless of his own internal turmoil – sixteen cities, up and down the East Coast, starting in just a few weeks.

“Guess ‘Nomad on Tour’ did okay,” Daisy says, joining Steve against the wall, referring to their new album. She’s the current owner of the Shield and Star, having purchased it from Fury a few years ago. She claims to be escaping a life of crime (which she always says with a flicker of her eyebrows and audible italics) hacking where she wasn’t quite welcome, but her musical knowledge runs deep and she has an ear for new bands which keeps the nightly offerings at the Shield fresh and exciting.

“Yeah,” Steve replies. “People like it.”

Daisy frowns at him. “They more than like it, Steve. It’s selling like sexy hotcakes.” Her gaze lands on Bucky, currently gyrating on the dance floor with a leggy blonde. There’s no question that Bucky has an impressive… fanbase, as well as assets of the physical kind that can’t be denied.

Bucky’s got a hold of the mic again, shouting to the crowd to shut up and dance with the band, right here, right now. “Tonight’s a night for celebration!” he screams, and the crowd screams right back with him. The (in Steve’s opinion, overplayed) popular song begins to play. Clint bounces along near the sound system, happy to be DJ for the night, and waves enthusiastically at Steve when the chorus comes around, _Oh, oh, ooohhh, shut up and dance with me._

Steve nods and smiles at Clint, but he’s not ready to leave his safe spot in the corner. His eyes are drawn to Bucky, as they always are. He watches as Bucky twirls one person after another, spreading his attention to all their friends and fans, his painted on black jeans not daring to get in the way of his effortless grace. As Bucky throws his arms up in the air, Steve knows that his black t-shirt is sticking to the small of his back, knows how it might pull up to reveal a stretch of tight skin. Suddenly Bucky is looking at Steve, eyes bright and shining, and for one fleeting moment, he feels as if his heart might catch fire. _I knew we were bound to be together, bound to be together._

But Bucky looks away, to the next moth to be caught in his flame, and the moment passes. Bucky doesn’t yell for him to join him, doesn’t dance his way over and tug Steve into the crowd like he used to. Before everything went to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song reference: Shut Up and Dance – Walk the Moon


	2. Verse

Chapter Two - Verse

_Three months earlier_

Steve is startled out of his doze on the couch when Bucky stumbles into the apartment. It’s late, almost two in the morning, and they’ve got an early meeting tomorrow with the record company, but Bucky shows no sign of repentance.

He’s stinking of booze, his shoulder-length dark hair is tangled, and the eyeliner he applied so carefully earlier in the night is smeared. 

“Fun night?” Steve asks, striving to keep the disdain out of his tone.

Bucky doesn’t answer, just throws a look at Steve and sways into the kitchen, hip checking the counter for balance.

“Out with Brock again?”

Bucky still doesn’t answer, at least not in words, although his middle finger does the talking for him.

Brock Rumlow is an assistant something or other to a hot-shot producer at HYDRA, a rival recording company to the one Nomad is contracted to. Despite this, Brock insists that he can help them reach the next level, and that his contacts will enhance Nomad’s success. But as far as Steve can tell, all Brock is interested in doing is getting into Bucky’s pants.

Bucky stalks back into their tiny living room and sinks down on the couch next to Steve. Despite his obvious inebriation, he doesn’t spill a drop of water out of the glass in his hand.

“Why are you so angry?” Bucky asks. “I didn’t do anything.” He sounds sad, as if Steve’s opinion matters to him. Which of course it does, Steve knows this, somewhere in the back of his mind. It just doesn’t feel much like it these days.

“I just don’t think Brock’s good for you,” Steve finally manages to say.

Bucky’s brow creases. “He took me to see another band he’s working with, wanted me to hear them. They’re really tight, got some great riffs. Then we all had drinks afterwards.” Bucky takes a long swallow of water, as if to emphasize his point. “There’s nothing wrong with Brock,” Bucky says deliberately, almost as if he’s trying to convince himself. “He’s fun.”

 _As opposed to you,_ Steve can’t help but hear, although Bucky probably doesn’t mean it that way.

Steve’s never been a party kind of guy, never the last one on the dance floor when the music stops. He prefers quiet nights with friends, working on music, playing bits and pieces of songs for each other. Bucky used to like that, too.

“Hey,” Bucky says, pushing himself up off the couch, still swaying a little bit, “want to hit the studio tomorrow? Sam’s got an idea for the bridge on that song,” Bucky hums a bit of the melody they’ve been rewriting – the piece doesn’t have a name yet, although Steve insists that eventually they’re just going to have to title it “That Song” if they can’t come up with something better.

“Sure. After my doctor’s appointment.”

Bucky’s door creaks shut, and Steve is left alone with his thoughts. Not a very pleasant place to be, these days. 

He doesn’t want to be jealous of Bucky’s friendships. Jealousy is petty, and small, and Steve doesn’t want to be that person. But it still stings.

As Nomad has become more well known, Bucky has emerged as the most popular of the group. It’s not surprising – he’s the lead singer, and he’s got charm for miles. He’s the best of them when it comes to talking to the media, and connecting with audiences.

Although they do each have their own fans, there’s no question that Bucky Barnes outshines them all.

Sam would scold Steve for thinking this way. They’ve sort of had this conversation, one late night after a gig, fans loitering in every corner in hopes of getting a selfie with Bucky, or even a quick hug. Bucky’s patient with their fans, he doesn’t even seem to mind when hands wander where no stranger’s hands should go. 

*****

“It wouldn’t do you any harm to go chat with them, too,” Sam says, nodding his head in the direction of the crowd.

“They don’t want to talk to me.”

Sam frowns. “But they do – you know they do.” Sam shifts closer to Steve, points not-so-subtly at a trio of girls hanging back from the crowd around Bucky, shooting shy glances in Steve’s direction. “Look over there. They’re here for you, not Buck.”

One of the girls seems Sam looking at her, and grins, then spins around and pulls her ponytail off her back so the slogan on her t-shirt is visible. “Cap’s Biggest Fan,” it reads.

“Fine,” Steve admits, a little smile tugging at his mouth. “But I still don’t get that nickname.”

“You don’t have to get it, Steve,” Sam says, giving him a shove towards the now increasingly excited girls. “Just embrace it.”

*****

But sitting on the couch, tired, bored, and Bucky-less, the memory of Steve’s fans does nothing to cheer him. He knows, although he hates to think too hard about it, that even if he had a million more fans than Bucky, he’d still be jealous. And that doesn’t make him feel very proud of himself.

He sighs, then gets up and heads to bed. He knows he’s got to pull himself out of this slump. At this point he hardly deserves his nickname – “Captain.” The fans bestowed it on him because Bucky used to say Steve was the heart of the group, the moral compass they relied on to guide their way through life. But right now he doesn’t feel qualified to lead a group of third graders on a field trip.

Natasha is Black Widow, a name she earned only recently after her break-up with Clint. She attributes it to an offhand comment made during an interview, late one night after a few too many vodka shots. She claimed afterwards she never said she wanted to actually _kill_ Clint, she was just mad enough to do it, but the name stuck.

Sam is the Falcon, because of the way his hands fly over his drum set. And Bucky – well, Bucky’s nickname is a little more obscure.

One night Steve and Bucky were playing around with lyrics for a melody that just wouldn’t quit, and for some inexplicable reason, they decided they liked the rhythm of “Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.” They worked it into a song, and performed it six or seven times over the next few weeks, before discarding it as not really likely to ever be polished enough for their upcoming album. But fans at those shows had recorded it, and posted it online, and it developed somewhat of a cult following, the little-known anthem that would never see the light of day.

Fans clamor for it now, chanting “Falcon, Captain, Soldier, Spy” – which makes little sense, because Nat isn’t a spy, any more than Bucky is a soldier. And they all seem perfectly happy to keep Black Widow as Nat’s nickname for every other situation. 

What makes it worse is that “Tinker, Tailor” was one of those songs that didn’t really _mean_ anything, and Nomad gets asked over and over to explain it. Once Bucky just laughed and said something like “it’ll be a winter’s day in hell before we perform something like that again,” and voila, he then became the Winter Soldier.

Now all Bucky needs to do is throw on an outfit that’s even vaguely military, and the crowds go wild. They seem perfectly happy to ignore the fact that soldiers don’t generally wear eyeliner. 

*****  
The next morning Bucky is bright eyed and bushy tailed, showing no signs of the hangover Steve would surely have if he had been as drunk as Bucky had been the night before. 

They endure the meeting with the record company, signing where the little “sign here” stickers tell them to sign. Everything has already been vetted by Coulson, and Steve figures if Coulson doesn’t have a problem with the deal, he’s unlikely to find anything wrong with it. Afterwards Bucky heads off to the studio, whistling as he goes, and Steve takes the subway uptown to his doctor’s office.

He’s a little nervous as he sits in the waiting room. It’s all kind of new to him, going to the doctor when he isn’t sick as a dog. But the success of their first album brought not only increased funding for the next, but health insurance.

When he goes into the little room to talk to Dr. Banner, he’s been holding his breath off and on for so long he’s actually starting to feel a bit lightheaded. Luckily the doctor sees his shaking hands and takes pity on him.

“It’s all good news, Steve. You can relax.” Dr. Banner waves him to the examining table, and Steve sits down.

“The tests came back okay?”

“You’re a miracle of modern medicine,” Dr. Banner says, a soft smile on his face. “Or, more precisely, this treatment is a good example of the right medications doing exactly what they were designed to do.”

A few months ago Steve had finally bit the bullet and gone to see a doctor, making sure it was covered by his insurance. Dr. Banner had been appalled at the state of his health, diagnosing him with asthma (which Steve had been well aware of), high blood pressure, and rheumatoid arthritis. Also IBS and a gluten allergy. The doctor hadn’t wanted to freak out his system by starting him on treatment for everything all at once, so they had been introducing new drugs every few weeks, slowly addressing each problem and making sure that the medications didn’t make anything worse.

The treatment for his arthritis had been the last one they started, as the medication apparently had the potential for significant side effects. It was also horrifyingly expensive, if it hadn’t been covered by insurance. But apparently it wasn’t messing up his kidney, or his liver, or whatever this drug could potentially do, and this was good news indeed.

Dr. Banner does a quick exam, his hands gentle. “Tell me about what you’ve been eating. Any adverse reactions?”

Steve describes his mostly vegetarian diet, low in fat, gluten-free. Boring, but it has been fantastic not to feel sick after every meal. It’s no wonder he used to hardly eat anything, when all food did was hurt.

“And exercise?”

Steve blushes. “Yeah. Weights no more than twice a week, like you said. But I’m running every day.”

Dr. Banner looks pleased. “Well, you can up the weights to three times a week, if you want.” He looks Steve up and down. “And the work you’ve been putting in shows, Steve. You’re gaining weight, and you’re doing it right.”

Steve can’t help but feel a flash of pride. He’s knows he’s been putting on some muscle, now that he’s able to eat, and breathe, and move like a healthy twenty-something instead of the too-skinny guy he’s been most of his life. His friends have noticed, too – Nat even insisted on taking him shopping last weekend, claiming his new body was deserving of a new look. He still wound up with the same t-shirts he used to wear, but Nat insists he “fills them out” better. Just thinking about it makes him blush again.

He steadfastly refuses to let himself wonder if Bucky has noticed. He’ll never be as broad as Bucky around the shoulders, probably never develop the same firm chest muscles and toned abs. But maybe he’s worth a look now, at least. 

It’s not as if Steve really thinks that Bucky is so shallow that the only reason nothing has ever happened between them is his physique (or, more accurately, the lack thereof). But it would still be nice to be noticed.

Steve stops on his way to the studio to get lunch for the three of them. Bucky has been nothing but supportive of his new diet, especially once it became clear that it would involve Steve doing a lot more cooking instead of just grabbing junk food all the time. But today he hasn’t planned ahead, so he stops at a Middle Eastern place and gets three falafel wraps with gluten-free pitas.

Sam and Bucky seem glad for the excuse to take a break when Steve arrives, quickly putting down their instruments and converging on the take-out bag in Steve’s arms.

When Bucky goes off to get them some drinks, Sam sits down on the floor next to Steve and bumps him with his shoulder. “Glad you’re here, man,” Sam says, unwrapping his pita.

“Song still not coming together?”

Sam shrugs. “That too.”

When they finish eating and turn back to their task, Steve figures out what Sam is referring to. Bucky is in a bit of a mood, and no matter what suggestion Sam makes, he isn’t happy with it. Steve sits back and just listens for a little while, trying to hear what has Bucky so dissatisfied. Finally he interrupts a particularly strained back and forth between his bandmates and suggests that Sam let him take a stab at it.

“Sure, have at it.” Sam stands up from behind his drum kit and stretches. “Think I’ll take a walk.”

“It’s getting late anyway,” Steve says, not glancing at the clock, which would give away the fact that it is barely two o’clock. “Why don’t you call it a day, and let Bucky and me hash it out?”

Steve can see Bucky scowling out of the corner of his eye, but he keeps his gaze on Sam.

Sam seems more than willing to get out of Dodge, and doesn’t argue. “Okay. Later.”

After Sam leaves, Steve tunes his bass for a few minutes, then gets one of the guitars down from its stand by the wall and tunes it, too. It’s an old acoustic six-string, one that he used to play years ago before switching primarily to bass. He loves the sound he gets from it, mellow and easy.

Steve adjusts the tuning until he’s satisfied, then strums a little bit of Dylan, a little Joni Mitchell. Bucky is watching him suspiciously, but the tension has gone out of his shoulders. Steve figures his work is almost done, but then he changes gears (“lad I don’t know where you been but I see you won first prize”) and is rewarded with a genuine belly laugh from Bucky.

“ _The Scotsman,_ really Steve, there’s no way I can resist that,” Bucky says, coming over and plopping down on the floor in front of Steve. “Maybe we should give up on these original songs. Go back to our roots.”

“Play _Alice’s Restaurant_ on Thanksgiving for the fine patrons of the Shield and Star,” Steve says, nodding in agreement.

“Give them some quality protest songs,” Bucky says.

Steve hums “ _This land is your land,_ ” and Bucky grabs his guitar, his face brightening. They both start singing, making sure to include all the lyrics they love best ( _“As I went walking I saw a sign there_  
And on the sign it said ‘No Trespassing.’ But on the other side it didn't say nothing,  
That side was made for you and me.”) As the song winds to a close they start hamming it up, pointing and making faces at each other until they’re laughing so hard they fall back on the floor, jam session over. Steve’s holding his stomach, and he turns on his side to see tears streaming out of Bucky’s eyes. 

When they finally stop laughing, Steve waits to see what Bucky will do next. He’s lying on his back, hands at his sides, and his eyes have gone sad.

Steve wants desperately to ask Bucky what’s wrong, and he wants even more for Bucky to just tell him. But Steve doesn’t, and Bucky doesn’t.

*****

Two weeks later, and things have not improved. Bucky’s bad mood seems to have spread to all of them. Nat has taken to showing up at rehearsal late and leaving early, eliminating any chance at small talk. Sam remains stoic, but the way he pounds on the drums makes Steve wonder how much longer he can hold it all in. And Steve…

Steve just keeps going. He’s played this role for Bucky before, the solid, dependable friend. Back in high school when Bucky first came out, the mixed reaction from his peers caught him off guard. Somehow nobody cared that skinny, nerdy Steve was gay, but when Bucky let on that he liked boys as much as girls, the gossip started flying. Bucky withdrew from most of their friends, skipped classes, and nearly got himself kicked out of jazz band. But Bucky still showed up for Nomad rehearsals, even when all they did was sit in Steve’s room and look at You Tube videos of The Clash and David Bowie.

There’d be a few hard times in college, too, Bucky bent out of shape about some romantic interest that didn’t pan out, or a teacher that didn’t seem to appreciate his vision. But nothing like this. This time, Bucky was down, and he didn’t seem to care, not about himself, and not about how it was affecting the band.

They’re at the Shield and Star one night, Nat already having wandered off to text Clint without Sam looking over her shoulder, and Steve thinks maybe Bucky will finally tell him what’s going on. Nomad’s two sets went well – remarkably well, given the lackluster quality of their rehearsals lately – and Bucky seems slightly less morose than usual.

He and Steve are crammed into one side of a too-small booth, with Sam lounging on the other side. They’ve already had more than a few drinks each, and the next time the waitress comes around (Jemma – she’s in grad school studying rocket science or something ridiculous like that, but she works nights sometimes just to hang out with Daisy) Bucky orders a round of vodka shots. “Might as well lean into it,” he says, throwing it back and immediately ordering three more.

Steve isn’t sure what Bucky’s referring to, and straight vodka isn’t his favorite, but his higher brain functions are impaired by the sight of Bucky’s chest straining his thin black t-shirt, the leather cord around his neck dipping into the v-neck. The proximity of Bucky’s slightly sweaty arm, thrown over the back of the seat, his fingers tapping out a tune on Steve’s shoulder when a song he likes comes on. So Steve drinks too.

By the time they head home, Steve’s head is spinning. He and Bucky stay plastered together all the way back to their apartment, stumbling up the stairs, hanging on to each other for balance. When they get inside, they both collapse on the couch.

Bucky is halfway draped over Steve’s lap, and he reaches up, drawing a finger down Steve’s shoulder to his bicep. His finger feels cool against Steve’s hot skin, and when Bucky wraps his hand around Steve’s arm, Steve thinks he feels it echo over his entire body.

“You’re looking good, Rogers,” Bucky says, looking up at him. Steve flexes a little, and Bucky gives his arm a squeeze. “I hardly recognize you.”

Bucky sounds almost confused.

“Still me, pal.”

“You’re feeling better?” Bucky’s voice is hesitant.

This isn’t the conversation Steve really wanted to have, mostly drunk as he is, but he can tell Bucky is genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, loads.” Steve shrugs. “Who knew how cool it would be to breathe all the time, and not ache like a grandpa?”

“I’m glad, Stevie. Really glad.” Bucky snorts, sitting up a little until his face is level with Steve’s. “You’re still a punk, though. Can’t believe I talked you into drinking vodka.”

Bucky hadn’t actually talked him into anything, but that wasn’t really the point. “Still a punk,” Steve agrees. “And you’re still stuck with me.”

Bucky looks steadily at him, the weight of his gaze doing something to Steve he can’t help but enjoy, not now, with Bucky so sweet and so close.

“I am, aren’t I?” Bucky asks. It’s almost grateful.

Steve is frozen for a moment, gazing into Bucky’s steel blue eyes. His gaze drops to his mouth and nearly gasps as Bucky’s tongue darts out to lick his lips. He’s on the edge of his seat, on the edge of his courage, about to lean forward and do the unthinkable. He pushes aside the million reasons why this is a terrible idea, and takes a deep breath.

But as he inhales, tilting ever closer to Bucky, his stomach lurches violently. Steve slaps his hand to his mouth and runs from the room, knees hitting the bathroom floor with a jolt as he retches into the toilet. He slams the door closed behind him as he hears Bucky approach.

“’m fine,” he coughs out, leaning over to vomit again.

“Let me in,” Bucky demands.

“Go ‘way.” Steve’s shame is almost greater than the pain in his stomach, and there’s no way he’s going to let Bucky see him like this. Up until now, the night had dizzying potential. Steve doesn’t want the stench of his puke to be what Bucky remembers from this encounter, no matter how many times Bucky bangs on the door.

Eventually Bucky gives up. Steve has emptied his stomach and then some, and he dozes on the floor for a while, a towel bunched under his head. Sometime during the night he wakes and cleans himself up, then drags himself into bed. He falls asleep quickly, eager to forget what a mess he’s made.

When Steve finally drags himself out of bed the next morning, Bucky is gone.

He sees it in italics in his head - _Bucky is gone_ \- and then glances at the clock and realizes that Bucky is just at the Shield, helping Daisy set up for an event this afternoon they had all agreed to help with. It’s some kind of fundraiser for young musicians, right up Daisy’s alley. To make it even more interesting, there a mix-and-match component where people looking to start or join a band can jam with others who are doing the same thing to see if they are compatible, and then get a free studio session to see how they sound together.

The worthiness of the cause does nothing to soothe Steve’s nerves, however, not when he realizes it means that he won’t see Bucky before the event. Nomad is the headliner, a draw for patrons and potential musicians alike. They don’t even have a rehearsal beforehand, choosing instead to work the bar and sign autographs in the hour or so before they go on.

By the time Steve has showered and eaten some dry toast, he’s managed to almost convince himself that last night was no big deal. That the look in Bucky’s eyes as they sat breathing each other’s air on the couch wasn’t really desire; that the moment hadn’t been so charged it could have powered a small city. 

He’s only partially successful. True success doesn’t come until hours later.

When Steve is feeling human enough to face the world he dresses in what he wears for most performances – a gray shirt that fits tighter across his chest than it used to, jeans and sneakers, and a brown leather jacket over the top since April in Brooklyn is still pretty cold. 

He gets to the Shield and Star just as the musicians are starting to arrive, signing up under their preferred instrument and filling out cards with information about their preferences. Daisy grabs him at the door and immediately puts him to work at the registration table. It’s a little like a dating service, Steve thinks, as he helps a young woman go through the checklist, indicating level of commitment desired (how often do you want to rehearse?) and past experience (can you really play that instrument or are you just learning? Ever booked a gig? Need a manager?)

It’s more than an hour before Steve even catches a glimpse of Bucky. He’s been assigned to work the guests, wooing potential donors. Natasha is with him, and Steve can’t help but think how good they look together, both gracefully charming as they mingle with the wealthier movers and shakers in the music world. 

Bucky looks fantastic as always. He’s got a black leather jacket over his trademark black t-shirt, paired today with skinny black jeans and boots that come up to his knees. He’s got his hair pulled back, maybe out of deference to the occasion, or maybe just to show off the dark eyeliner and shimmer of silver he’s got around his eyes.

Steve would swoon, but then the self-important high schooler in front of him who claims he’s a multi-instrumentalist who’s been playing ever since his parents bought him a violin at age three would have way too good a story to tell his (likely equally arrogant) friends.

It’s almost time for the opening act when Sam comes to find him. “We’ve got a table up near the front,” he says, putting a beer in Steve’s hand. “Come on, Bucky says these kids are awesome.”

Steve sits down next to Sam, scanning the now packed bar for Bucky. He imagines him sliding into the chair next to him, shooting him a shy but hopeful look, blushing when Steve sets his hand on his knee under the table.

This does not happen. Instead, Brock Rumlow appears, with Bucky in tow, and plants his horrible self next to Steve. Brock proceeds to explain how he’s been working with this band for months and that they are the next big thing. “Better look out, Steve, Nomad’s gonna be nobody compared to them if you’re not careful,” Brock says, only barely joking.

Steve wants to punch the smirk right off Brock’s carefully coifed hair. He gets even angrier when Brock reaches up and undoes Bucky’s ponytail. “Give the people what they want, baby.”

Sam stiffens next to Steve, and they exchange a confused glance – Bucky hates it when people touch his hair, and since when does Brock call him “baby?” But Bucky just shakes his hair out until it falls down around his face, effectively making it impossible for Steve to get a read on how he’s feeling.

Brock throws an arm around Bucky and whispers in his ear for the entirely of the first set, and by then, Steve is fuming. He gets up and pushes through the crowd, ending up outside the Shield, pacing back and forth.

Somewhat to his surprise, Sam joins him a few minutes later. Sam’s usually too polite to walk out in the middle of anything, but it turns out there’s a half hour break before the next band.

Sam ignores the sidelong looks Steve is getting from patrons coming into the bar and joins him, standing just inside the entryway. It’s begun to rain, sharp and bitingly cold, and Steve left his jacket inside, too heated up by his frustration and shame to notice until Sam starts shivering.

“You want to tell me what’s got your knickers in a pinch?” Sam asks, not looking at Steve. 

Steve shrugs. His pathetic love life is none of Sam’s business.

“Because you’ve been the only one that Bucky has been even halfway civil to, lately. If you guys are going to have it out…”

Sam doesn’t finish the sentence. Nomad is contractually obligated to finish the album they are working on, but if things continue the way they are now, it’s not going to be fun. And the chance of them making music anyone will want to listen to – well, bands have done breakup albums before, full of angst and betrayal. But it’s not really what people expect from Nomad. More importantly, it’s not what Steve wants to put out into the world.

“I don’t have a clue what’s going on with me and Bucky,” Steve says, and it comes out sadder than he meant it to. Sam catches it, and gives Steve a little shove with his shoulder that is probably meant to be reassuring.

“Talk to him. You’re like the Bucky-whisperer. He always calms down for you.”

Steve squeezes his eyes together and rubs his hand across his face. He’s tired of this role, with Bucky. The peacemaker. The stalwart friend, even in the face of Bucky’s moods. He had thought, last night, that he might be more. But clearly he was wrong.

“I don’t like Brock,” Steve says, moving his hand to look Sam in the eye. It’s not an answer to Sam’s question – hell, Sam didn’t really ask a question – but it sums up the situation better than anything else he could say.

Sam nods and sighs. “Yeah, me neither.”

They stand together in silence for a few more minutes, and then Sam speaks up again. “Can I buy you a beer, or at least bring you a coat? We’re gonna play like shit if we lose our fingers to frostbite.”

“Asshole,” Steve mutters, pulling open the door. “I don’t ever play like shit.”

Sam laughs, and they go inside.

Luckily Steve’s fingers warm up just fine. The tequila shot Daisy hands him as he is about to go on stage doesn’t hurt either. But what does hurt is watching Brock pull Bucky down for a fierce kiss, one hand wrapped tightly around the back of Bucky’s neck, before Bucky climbs up to the mic.

They start off with some tried and true favorites from their first album, with a focus on the New York themed songs that their fans love - _Brooklyn Boys, The Docks at Sunset,_ and _Tiny Apartment Blues._. Then Bucky launches into some covers, The Clash and The B-52’s - they do a mean take on _Love Shack_ that has everyone dancing and singing along. Natasha takes over for a few songs, she and Bucky do a soft duet, and then they close out the set with one of the songs from their upcoming album. Natasha introduces it, warning the crowd that it’s still a work in progress, and then turns to Steve for the bass pick-up. 

In Steve’s opinion, “Living in a Lonely World” has the potential to be a great song, perhaps one of the best songs Nomad has ever written. It’s not there yet, though, and he hadn’t expected them to perform it. But Bucky is full of surprises tonight.

When they hit the chorus for the second time, Natasha pitching her voice soft and low, weaving a harmony around Bucky’s lead, the crowd has completely fallen under their spell. 

_I don’t recognize the world around me_  
Not even the streets look the same  
I’d beg you please to come find me  
If I could only remember your name. 

There’s a hush when they finish, for a long, loaded moment, and then a swell of applause. It’s the very best feeling, so good that Steve manages to forget the disaster that is his life, at least until Brock pulls Bucky down off the stage and into his arms.

Steve, Nat and Sam work the crowd for a while after their set, until Daisy finally flashes the lights in the universal signal for “You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here.” Sam suggests that they take the celebration to another bar, but Steve is exhausted. Worse, Bucky is nowhere to be found, and neither is Brock.

“You sure you don’t want to come with?” Sam asks, as Natasha gathers her coat and bag. “Clint’s going to meet us, and Daisy’s coming too.” 

“Nah, I’m fine.” What Steve likes best after a show like this is to sit with Bucky over crappy take-out and beer, in their dumpy little apartment, or in an all night diner, going through a debrief of the night’s performance. He imagines Bucky’s shy look of pride when they relive the high points, the way he scrunches his brows when they touch on a painful moment. Steve feels a pang of loss, knowing none of that’s in the cards for tonight. He appreciates Sam’s offer, but all he wants to do is go home and mourn in peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song references:  
> Original Nomad songs titled Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy; Brooklyn Boys; The Docks at Sunset; Tiny Apartment Blues; Living in a Lonely World (feel free to suggest lyrics to any of these)  
> The Scotsman – folk song, can find it by Bryan Bowers  
> Alice’s Restaurant – Arlo Guthrie  
> This Land is Your Land – Woody Guthrie (yes, those are real lyrics – the song is feistier than you think)  
> Love Shack – The B52’s


	3. Bridge

Chapter 3 - Bridge

Somehow, Steve manages to avoid ever talking about _that night_ with Bucky. In some ways Bucky makes it easy, announcing that he wants to work on some music by himself. He also hangs out with Brock more than any of them can stand.

Steve’s hurt, but he’s also worried. There are too many nights when Bucky comes home late, looking like he’s been ridden hard and put away wet. The bags under his eyes never quite go away, and his hair is stringy and seems to serve the sole purpose of hiding his face from Steve.

Time goes by, until Steve begins to resign himself to the thought that he’s never getting the old Bucky back. He tries to ask Bucky what’s going on, or even just spend a quiet night together watching movies, but Bucky evades his attention.

Then the day after the party at the Shield and Star, when Nomad announced their tour, something starts to change. It doesn’t happen immediately, but over a week or so Steve notices Bucky taking better care of himself, even going for a run. Then one morning he comes out of the shower, jeans on and towel around his neck, and suggests that they get the band together for dinner to make plans. Steve blinks at him, and Bucky has the decency to blush, but then he squares his shoulders and faces Steve head on, a nervous look flickering across his face.

“We leave next Thursday,” Bucky says. “You’re still coming, right?”

“What?” Steve asks, confused.

“You’ll still do it – go on tour with me?”

Steve’s chest constricts, as he realizes Bucky is being serious. But there was never any question. “Of course, Buck. Why wouldn’t I?”

Bucky turns away and shrugs. Steve reaches out, touching Bucky for the first time in ages, and squeezes his shoulder. “You’re stuck with me, pal. I’m not going anywhere.”

Bucky looks at Steve, his gaze lighter than it’s been in months. “Til the end of the line, huh?”

Steve smiles. “Something like that.”

Steve sends out a group text, and ignores the questions as best he can. Nat sends out a plea to go to someplace “classy” and Bucky actually agrees, and they meet up that night in a gastropub Coulson had recommended to them but they had never had the energy to try.

There’s an odd little shuffling as they head for their booth, Bucky hanging back until he sees which side of the booth Steve chooses, and then sliding in next to him. Bucky gives Steve a shy look, and Steve responds with a grin that threatens to fly right off his face.

Steve buries his face in his menu, thrown by the hope welling up in his chest. He doesn’t want to stare, But he can’t help sneaking glances at Bucky as they all discuss whether a salad drenched in blue cheese dressing even counts as a vegetable. Bucky’s looking awfully good tonight, hair clean and almost fluffy, a soft blue sweater hugging his chest. Steve envies that sweater.

Nat has her hands under the table and when Steve’s phone buzzes he knows exactly what the message says. It’s what they are all thinking – where has grumpy Bucky gone, and who did Steve have to kill to bring this darling man back in his place?

True to form, however, none of them actually ask the question. Rock bands aren’t known for their great communication skills, and apparently they aren’t eager to break the mold with Nomad.

Bucky pulls out his little music notebook and they start talking about set lists for their first few stops on the tour. By the time they’ve each ordered their drinks and appetizers, Bucky’s elbow is pressing against Steve’s arm, and his knee is touching Steve’s under the table. If an apology could take physical form, Steve thinks this would be it.

Just as the server arrives with their drinks, Clint shows up. He pulls up a chair at the end of their booth, sits down on it backwards and bounces around as he waits for a break in the conversation.

“I got it!” he finally crows.

“Got what?” Sam asks.

“The job! I’m your bus driver.”

There’s a moment of silence, which Clint quickly starts to fill. “It’s going to be great – Coulson’s renting a real sleeper bus this time, with bunks and room for the equipment and everything. We won’t need a trailer, it will all fit.”

“Clint, can you drive a bus like that?” Steve tries not to let his doubts show in his voice.

“Yup! I even got the license.”

“I should hope so,” Nat mutters under her breath.

Steve shoots her a text (are you really ok with this?) and she looks up at him and nods grudgingly.

“Do you promise never to wake me up?” Nat asks Clint, but she’s clearly teasing.

He grins at her. “Not unless I have a good reason.”

“Not your job anyway,” Bucky says. “Coulson’s says he’s got a new guy for our tour manager.”

“He’s giving us a real tour manager?” Last time they had to handle all of the arrangements themselves, which generally meant Steve had to do it. He didn’t mind, for the most part. But it did take away from the time he might have been spending doing other things, like rehearsing. Or sleeping.

“Yeah. Guy named Fitz. He’s going to do the sound engineering too.”

The conversation turns to what “a real sleeper bus” actually means (Clint insists it will have a kitchen, but Nat quickly vetos the storage of any food other than beer – it will just get gross and make the whole place stink, she insists, her nose crinkling in disgust). Steve watches Bucky out of the corner of his eye as they talk about sleeping on the bus in actual bunks, and having someone else to carry their equipment. Bucky’s excitement shows in his whole body, and it’s something Steve hasn’t seen in months.

Back at the apartment that night, Bucky’s good mood continues. He flops down on the couch instead of going directly to his room, and cajoles Steve into watching television with him even though they both should be sleeping. They find an old 80’s movie to watch, the one where John Cusack has a record store, and laugh themselves silly at the scenes where the characters act like musical snobs. They’re debating the hipster value of mixtapes when Bucky stops talking, almost midsentence, and gazes at Steve.

“I missed you,” Bucky says softly.

It’s the other half of the apology Bucky gave him earlier that night, with his elbow and his knee, and his devastatingly shy smile. Steve feels something blossom in his chest.

“Missed you too, pal,” he replies.

Bucky deftly returns the conversation to the movie. The moment isn’t over, however, so much as it is simply completed. The warm feeling in his chest stays with Steve for the rest of the night.

******  
The tour bus isn’t the latest model by far, but in the opinion of every member of Nomad, it is awesome. It’s got more or less regular seats in the front (no big couches like the luxury buses you see in the movies) and then a section with bunks in the back. There is a tiny kitchen, and of course a bathroom, although they all pledge to use it as infrequently as possible so as not to ruin the experience for everyone.

Leo Fitz, their tour manager, is nothing like what Steve expected. He’s a slight guy with a Scottish accent that becomes more pronounced when he’s nervous. Steve hopes he calms down as he gets to know the guys, because generally nervousness is not what one looks for in a TM. 

Fitz introduces them to the crew that will be handling their equipment and all the tech issues during the tour. Because Fitz himself is also doubling as their sound engineer, and because, frankly, they don’t have the money for fancy stage sets, they just have two other people along. Mac, a big guy with the ability to fall asleep on a dime, has helped them with big shows before, and he greets them all with smothering hugs and slaps on the back. 

Peter Quill is the new addition. Steve’s first impression of Peter is that he’s a little flighty, but he tells himself to wait until he gets to know him better. Of course, when he sees Peter and Clint laughing at some meme and then acting it out with exaggerated goofball expressions, he exchanges a look with Natasha. She raises her eyebrows and smirks. At least if Clint has Peter to occupy him, it might cut down on how much he can annoy Natasha. And keeping Nat happy is always a good thing.

Steve can’t wait for their first show. For whatever reason, they are starting their tour outside of Miami, so they have a few days of driving and then a rehearsal before anything exciting happens. The beauty of having a sleeper bus, in theory, is that after a show they can all pile on and let Clint drive them to their next city, while the band sleeps. But for now, it’s just regular, boring day driving.

They stop just past Washington, D.C. to eat, and when they get back on the bus Steve settles down in his seat and considers taking a nap. He quite likes the spot that has more or less become his, four rows back, and across from where Bucky has taken up residence. There’s enough space so that they each have two seats to themselves, although there are various boxes and bags piled in some of the empty spots. Steve’s backpack works well as a pillow, so he’s not complaining.

Steve’s eyes are closed and he is starting to doze when he realizes that the last three songs playing over the speakers have a common theme. He sits up, and then moves into the seat just behind Clint. Even from behind, he can see that Clint is trying not to smile.

“You made us a mixtape,” Steve whispers in Clint’s ear.

“They call them playlists these days, old man,” Clint answers quietly. “Let’s see how long it takes the others to notice.”

When the next song starts Steve hears Sam begin to sing along, a note of amusement in his voice.

“Take it easy, take it easy. Don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.”

By the time the chorus comes around again, most of the bus is singing along. “Come on baby, don’t say maybe. I gotta know if your sweet love is gonna save me.”

Rihanna’s contribution comes on next, and Nat gets up to dance in the aisles. Bucky joins her, and they all sing along, waving their arms in the air. “’Cause it’s 0 to 60 in 3.5. Baby you got the keys, now shut up and drive, drive, drive, shut up and drive.”

Steve catches a glimpse of Fitz, who looks like the math nerd who unexpectedly finds himself at a frat party. For a moment he wonders if Fitz is going to tell them to sit down and put on their seat belts. But then Fitz seems to make his mind up about something, and joins in, his accent disappearing as he sings along with Rihanna. “Get you where you wanna go, if you know what I mean. Got a ride that’s smoother than a limousine. Can you handle the curves, can you run all the lights? If you can, baby boy, then we can go all night.”

The playlist goes on and on, and eventually everyone settles back down. Towards the end is one of Steve’s favorite songs, “Drive Darling Drive,” by an unappreciated duo with the somewhat confusing name “Boy.” Steve relaxes in his seat and closes his eyes again.

Suddenly Bucky is sitting next to him, and Steve opens his eyes. 

“Still think we should cover this song?” Bucky asks, his face oddly neutral.

Steve tenses. It’s an old debate. “You know I do.”

“It’s not really our vibe-”

“We could do it our own way,” Steve interrupts, ready for the argument to begin again. “A little more edge.” Sure, they aren’t going to sing it like the two European women in “Boy” do, but they could make it their own.

“I agree,” Bucky says, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. 

“What?”

“I may have written to Valeska to see if they’d go for it.”

Steve scans Bucky’s face, looking for the joke. “You wrote to the singer?”

“Sure. I mean, we’re not going to put it on our next album or anything. But you like it, so…”

Steve can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, even though he has the feeling it’s making him look like a dork. “That’s… that’s great, Buck. Really. I… Thanks.” He stares at Bucky for a long moment as the song plays on, not sure what to think. 

_The trunk is filled with records, and books and tears and clothes. I’m smiling on the surface, but I’m scared as hell below._

“Don’t mention it.” Bucky leans back and props his feet up on the seat diagonally across the aisle, his shoulder pressing into Steve’s side. Like it’s nothing, Bucky crosses his arms over his chest and closes his eyes. But there’s a real smile on Bucky’s face, and Steve takes a few moments to enjoy the view – and the downright giddy feeling in his stomach. It’s not as if Bucky never does nice things for him, but it’s been a long time since he’s made such a clear overture. 

Steve closes his eyes and lets himself doze. It feels good to have his best guy back.

*****

When they arrive at the club in Miami and get set up for rehearsal, Steve’s nerves begin to tingle in anticipation. The club isn’t the biggest one they’ve ever performed at, but it’s far more stylish than many of their venues – certainly a far cry from the Shield and Star. 

“This is going to be amazing, isn’t it?” Sam says, coming up behind Steve as he tunes his bass. Sam’s looking around the empty club, rubbing his hands together.

“I think it is,” says Bucky, joining them. Nat comes over too, and they all stand there like fools, looking at each other like they can’t really believe what’s about to happen.

“Feels like we should make a show circle,” Steve says, butterflies improbably leaping around his insides. This is just another Nomad show, not the Grammy’s. Why does it suddenly seem so fraught?

Bucky puts an arm around Steve and Nat, and they all reach out and circle up. “I don’t think we’ve done this since high school,” Bucky says. 

“Remember _Guys and Dolls?”_ Steve asks, and Bucky kicks him lightly in the shin.

“You promised never to mention that.”

“He was Sky Masterson, wasn’t he?” Nat says, grinning. 

“Sure was. And when the time came to kiss his co-star, Peggy slapped him across the face,” Steve informs the group.

Bucky groans, and everyone laughs. “Tough break, Buck,” Sam says.

“But why? Bucky’s a charmer. He’s pretty kissable,” Nat says.

Steve doesn’t let himself dwell on whether Nat knows this from personal experience. “Not sure. But Peggy was a freshman, and I guess she just didn’t expect him to really kiss her.”

“Oh, man, consent is sexy, Bucky,” says Sam. “Bad move.”

“It was in the script!” Bucky moans, and their show circle falls apart, everyone continuing to tease Bucky. Steve’s nerves have fallen away, and he gazes fondly at his friends. They’re really doing this. And it’s going to be amazing.

*****  
That night in his bunk, left with echoes of adrenaline and the sure knowledge that he should have had something to eat for dinner besides rice crackers and an apple, Steve lies quietly and reflects on their first show of their first tour.

On a scale of one to ten, he gives it a six. The audience was energized, and they had a pretty full room. But they had some technical difficulties, including with Nat’s mic – which chose to quit during what was supposed to be one of her most emotional moments on stage. After that everyone seemed a little off, although Steve thinks they noticed it more than the audience did.

When they had finished their first set and gone backstage to gulp down Gatorade and clean up for the rest of the show, Steve had overheard Fitz talking to the venue’s stage manager. Fitz spoke in low tones, and his posture was relaxed, but “ripped him a new one” would describe the overall substance of the conversation as well as anything. Guess that’s why Coulson hired him, Steve thinks.

Fitz gave them a fairly impressive and direct pep talk after the show, too, before herding them straight on to the bus. They’ve got another show tomorrow night, so there won’t be any celebration now, just sleep.

Of course, the irony of the fact that he’s wide awake, thinking about Fitz telling them to get some sleep, isn’t lost on Steve.

The bunks are in stacks of two (which came as a relief to them all – the even cheaper buses sometimes stack up three people, leaving a distinctly coffin-like impression), and Fitz had handed them each a cheap sheet to put over the crinkly mattress. They each brought their own sleeping bag and pillow. Steve’s sleeping bag is one he’s had since he was a Boy Scout. It’s dark green on the outside, with a worn flannel lining in green and blue plaid. Bucky’s is exactly the same. Steve’s mom gave them the sleeping bags for Christmas one year, when they had gotten old enough to go on overnights with their troop.

Steve spends a moment sending a little thank you up to his mom. She’s been gone for five years now, but he imagines she’s still looking out for him the way she always had. Bucky, too. Steve’s mom probably saw more of Bucky than his own mother did, especially after Bucky’s parents split up. It’s not a happy memory, Bucky showing up on his front porch just before middle school graduation, face streaked with tears. 

If Steve leans out of his bunk just a little, he can see the edge of Bucky’s green sleeping bag sticking out over the edge of the top bunk. As if reading his mind, there’s a flop from above him and then Bucky is peering over the edge, blinking at Steve.

“I can’t sleep,” Bucky whispers, and Steve grins at him.

“Me neither,” Steve replies.

“Me neither,” Sam echoes from across the aisle.

There’s a swishing sound as Natasha pushes her curtain open from the bunk above Sam. “Fine. Let’s play cards.”

“We should really sleep,” a voice mumbles from behind them. It’s not Fitz, to Steve’s surprise, it’s Mac. Then there’s a rustling noise, and the voice comes again, clearer. “But if we’re not gonna sleep, I vote for poker.”

Soon they are all gathered together, perched on the seats at the front of the bus. Natasha sticks a bare foot across the aisle to poke Steve, and he tickles her, almost earning himself a kick in the face.

“I’d put some shoes on if I were you,” Bucky says, glancing at the floor. “You never know what’s been on that floor.”

Steve deals the cards, keeping his gaze down, but Natasha says exactly what he’s thinking.

“--- coming from the one who’s almost naked.”

Bucky doesn’t like to wear much when he sleeps. It’s been a heavy cross for Steve to bear ever since they hit puberty. He complains that he’s too hot. Right now he’s wearing black boxer shorts and a loose gray tank top that is more decorative than functional.

After a few hands, some of them seem to regret their decision. Peter Quill in particular practically nods off at one point, until Sam pulls his earbuds out of his ears to get his attention.

“How can you play poker if you can’t hear us?”

Quill shrugs. “I like listening to music.”

“I can put on some tunes,” Clint says, twisting his head around in an attempt to join in the conversation.

“Probably shouldn’t. Fitz is asleep,” Steve says.

“Hard to believe he’s sleeping through all this,” Nat says. She turns to Steve and Bucky, and speaks in a softer voice. “He did a good job tonight.”

“Yeah, he did,” Steve says. 

“Got the stage manager to reduce the fees for the equipment we rented, given the tech screw-ups,” Quill adds.

“Really?” Bucky asks.

Quill starts to answer, then a yawn stretches his face. “Um, yeah. Really.” He stands up, putting his cards down on Sam’s bunk. “I better hit the hay.”

Mac follows him with a yawn of his own, and Natasha sighs. “Guess we should at least try to act like reasonable people.”

“I don’t think reasonable people sleep in bunk beds in moving vehicles,” Bucky jokes, gathering the cards up and stowing them in the bag Steve has stashed at the foot of his bed. 

“It’s not like there’s a lot of sleeping going on,” Steve says.

“We’re going to be sorry about this tomorrow, aren’t we?” Sam asks, giving Nat an unnecessary boost as she climbs into the top bunk.

“Touch my ass again and you’ll definitely be sorry.” 

*****  
They fall into a rhythm, all together in this strange world where the only people they see up close are their bandmates and crew. Each day is the same – roll up to a new venue, traipse through the parking lot to the back entrance, wait for Fitz to get them settled. Shower, change, have a quick rehearsal to make sure all the tech is working. Eat, mostly take-out, in back hallways and green rooms. Then perform, to a packed club or a half-empty one, go back to the bus, and repeat.

Although they travel to different cities, almost every day, Steve doesn’t really have a sense of being anywhere except on the bus.

One night there’s a change in the routine. They’ve been booked as an opening act only, and by nine o’clock, they’re done for the night.

Quill insists they head over to a dance club downtown – apparently he knows the owner, Gamora – and they do, too excited about a night out to argue.

Nat is wearing some kind of slinky midnight blue dress and high heels, a change from her everyday leather jacket and jeans. She smirks at the rest of them as they enter the club, a veritable harem of men following in her worthy footsteps.

She’s immediately out on the dance floor, attracting attention from men and women alike. Bucky goes to join her, as does Mac.

The rest of them find a table with a decent view, and order drinks and overpriced appetizers. Soon a lithe woman with dark hair appears next to Quill, and he grabs her and spins her around, much to her dismay.

“Gamora, this is everyone. Everyone, Gamora.”

She tolerates Quill with ease, and joins them to chat for a few minutes. As they sit there, a round of drinks is brought over, which she informs them all is on the house.

“I like your friend, Quill,” Clint says when Gamora leaves.

Peter grins, and then frowns. “Wait, do you mean you _like_ her, because-”

“No, man, relax. I like anyone who gives me free alcohol.”

“What’s this?” Nat and Bucky are back, and Nat swipes the drink out of Clint’s hand and swallows it down.

“Hey, that was mine.”

“What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is mine. Live and learn, babe.” Nat sits down on Clint’s lap, which kind of takes the chill out of her words. Apparently she’s in a friendly mood tonight.

Another song comes on, and Bucky bounces on his toes. “Come on, someone’s got to dance with me.”

“Where’s Mac?”

They scan the room, finding him standing by the wall, having what looks to be an intense conversation with a Latina woman.

“Oh, he met Yo-Yo,” Quill says, smiling. “She’s awesome.”

“Do you know everyone here?” Nat asks, leaning back against Clint’s chest. Clint smiles happily, and wraps a hand around Nat’s waist.

“Nah. But Gamora and I grew up together. Her dad used to own this place. When she took over, she gave it a really great vibe, totally cleaned it up. A lot of our friends from school come here now, when they’re in the area.”

Nat and Clint finally agree to go dance with Bucky, and Quill goes to say hello to Yo-Yo. Steve is left at the table with Sam, who is nursing a beer, having given his complimentary vodka to Clint.

They sit together in companionable silence. Steve isn’t much in the mood for talking – he’d rather just people watch. Or, more accurately, Bucky watch.

Steve knows he’s pathetic, but he can’t help it. Bucky is mesmerizing. He’s not dressed up, just wearing a black v-neck t-shirt and jeans. Steve sighs to himself – Bucky has no right to look so perfect in such mundane clothes. 

Bucky’s hair is pulled back in a ponytail, but it’s more out than in at this point. He keeps brushing it out of his face, his fingers unwittingly moving where Steve’s long to go. His eyeliner has just started to smudge, but it does nothing to obscure the beauty of his eyes.

Bucky has a grace to him that pulls at Steve’s heart. It’s there in Bucky’s body no matter what he’s doing - walking down the street, drinking coffee in the kitchen, or sitting on the couch playing guitar. Steve can’t count the times he’s found himself standing still as a statue, unable to take his eyes off of Bucky – the curve of his cheek, the bend of his wrist, the shine of his skin in the sunlight.

Sometimes he thinks Bucky could ask anything of him, and he’d do it. No questions asked. Bucky’s never asked him to do anything momentous, though. Just to be his friend, and make music together. Steve knows it should be enough, for him to have Bucky in his life just as they are. But he wishes with all his soul that it could be more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song references:  
> Take it Easy – The Eagles  
> Shut Up and Drive – Rihanna  
> Drive, Darling, Drive – Boy


	4. Chorus

Chapter 4 - Chorus

Steve is coming out of the bathroom in one of the smallest venues they’ve had the pleasure to perform at when he hears a sickeningly familiar voice. It’s Brock Rumlow, and he’s shouting at Fitz. The two of them are circling a desk in a little office backstage, Fitz remarkably calm in the face of Brock’s savage diatribe. Steve can’t make out what they are talking about, other than Brock yelling obscenities and calling Fitz names, so he inches closer, trying to hide himself in a rack of costumes near the door.

When he gets a better view, Steve can see that Bucky is in the room, too. He’s backed into a corner, arms crossed tightly around his body. Brock heaps scorn on Bucky as well – “weak-assed front man” – “shit for brains” – “won’t listen to what he’s told.”

Steve’s heart is thudding hard in his chest. He always hated Brock, but he figured his judgment was probably impaired by his jealously over the fact that Brock was dating Bucky. Now it seems like he really should have trusted his spidey senses. Brock is a serious asshole, and apparently he’s got it in for Bucky something fierce.

Fitz says something that puts an end to the conversation, firmly but quietly enough that Steve can’t hear it. Then Fitz is leading Bucky out the door and down the hallway away from Steve, a hand on Bucky’s back as if he’s worried he won’t know which way to walk otherwise.

Brock storms out the room and heads in the other direction, almost crashing into Steve.

“What are you looking at?” Brock hisses. It’s as if he can’t be bothered to maintain a civil façade any longer and is about to turn into an actual snake.

“You need to leave Bucky alone,” Steve says, with as much weight as he can muster. He squares his shoulders, reminding himself that he’s no longer skinny and weak, and hopes all those hours in the gym actually show. 

“You’re pathetic. You both are,” Brock scoffs. “Knew he wouldn’t get rid of you, even when I told him he’d do better without you. Wouldn’t believe me, got all weepy about it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Probably doesn’t even remember, fucking imbecile. But your time will come. When you gotta go, you gotta go.” Brock stills for a moment, then scowls at Steve. “Fuck it, I’ll do it myself.”

Brock’s meaty hand swings towards Steve’s face. It’s almost a relief for Steve to duck out of his way, then aim a punch of his own. Brock easily blocks Steve, his arm heavy as concrete. Luckily before Brock can swing again, there’s a grating squeak that shocks them both. Mac is pushing a stack of equipment down the hall, the wheeled cart barely supporting the weight of the heavy electronics. Brock steps back and sizes up Mac – with his bulging biceps and towering height - and apparently realizes that if Mac gets involved, Brock’s odds will decrease dramatically. 

Mac plants himself next to Steve, and Brock turns and strides heavily away. “Friend of yours?”

“Not a chance,” Steve says, rubbing his wrist where it collided with Brock’s arm. “I don’t like bullies.”

“Anything I can do, you let me know,” Mac says, still watching Brock. 

“Will do.”

Mac gives Steve a long look, as if he’s waiting for him to fill in the blanks, but Steve doesn’t elaborate. Mac nods and goes back to his task. He gets about six feet down the hall with the cart when it lets out another hellish screech, and then thunks to a stop, one tiny wheel breaking off and skittering into the wall like a mouse escaping a cat.

By the time Steve and Mac have located another cart (with functioning wheels), transferred their gear, and loaded it into the equipment bay, it’s time to leave.

The bus pulls out of the parking lot before Steve even has a chance to sit down. Most everyone is still awake and engaged in their favorite down time activities – except for Fitz, who is typing rapidly on his laptop with a frown on his face. Steve slides past Sam, Peter and Nat, who are crammed into a seat together laughing at something on Sam’s phone, and scans the bus, looking for Bucky. Sam turns and touches his arm, the grin dropping off his face.

“Got straight into his bunk,” Sam says, his voice pitched low under Quill’s cackling. “I tried to see what was up, but…” Sam gives a helpless shrug. “He didn’t want to talk.”

Steve’s first reaction is actually relief. When he hadn’t immediately seen Bucky, he had the awful thought that somehow Brock had gotten to him, although he hadn’t let himself imagine why or how. Bucky withdrawn but safe is far preferable to the alternative, as far as Steve is concerned. At least he’s here, just a few feet away from Steve, where the worst thing that’s likely to happen to him is an overdose of Clint’s current road music playlist.

“Thanks,” Steve says to Sam. He’s not sure how to assuage Sam’s worries right now. Sam’s just going to have to trust him. He usually does, especially where Bucky is concerned. Anyway, Steve’s not about to talk to Sam about what he saw tonight, even if they weren’t in a bus filled with people. Whatever is going on is clearly too personal; too hurtful. Bucky probably doesn’t even know that Steve was lurking outside the room during Brock’s tirade.

Steve heads back to the bunks and changes into sleep pants and an old soft sweatshirt that used to be Bucky’s, before he went and got all grown up. It’s actually getting a little small on Steve, he notices with surprise. 

He shakes his head, amused at his own vanity, and pulls his six string guitar out from under his bunk. As he tunes it he imagines Bucky above him, in his bunk inside the curtain, lying on his side, face grimacing as Steve takes too long to coax the strings into the same key. Steve longs to push the curtain aside and put his arms around Bucky, hold him tight and make him forget about horrid Rumlow, but he doesn’t. That’s not how they work, the two of them. 

When Steve has tuned every string to his satisfaction, he climbs into his bunk and gets comfortable with his guitar. He doesn’t mind the fact that Clint’s music is still playing and that people are talking and laughing all around him. It gives him a strange sense that there’s a space for him, and Bucky, right here among their friends.

Steve starts to play, some of his favorites, songs from when he and Bucky were in college. He remembers the time they became obsessed with The Cowboy Junkies, playing their album over and over again one cold winter. They had a Jimmy Buffet phase too, enduring the relentless teasing of their friends when they toyed with giving their band a more countrified vibe. 

Steve feels melancholy, and lets his fingers begin another familiar tune. He sings along, quietly, knowing his audience of one in the bunk above knows the words as well as he does.

“There is a young cowboy, he lives on the range. His horse and his cattle are his only companions. He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons, waiting for summer, his pastures to change.”

Bucky’s mom used to sing this song to him. Steve caught her doing it once, humming under her breath as she helped Bucky get ready for a middle school dance, straightening his terrible clip-on tie. She had such fondness in her eyes, and Bucky just looked happy, tolerating his mom’s ministrations until she sent him off with a kiss on the cheek.

“And as the moon rises he sits by his fire, thinking about women and glasses of beer. Closing his eyes as the dogies retire, he sings out a song which is soft but it’s clear, as if maybe someone could hear.”

Bucky’s mom passed away just before they graduated from high school. Steve’s mom made it to see them both graduate from college before she lost her battle with breast cancer. The world hasn’t been easy for either of them. 

But they’ve been each other’s family, for as long as they can remember. 

“Goodnight you moonlight ladies, rock-a-bye sweet baby James. Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose, won’t you let me go down in my dreams? And rock-a-bye sweet baby James.”

Steve can feel a stillness in the air when he finishes the song. Clint’s playlist has been turned off, and the bus has gone quiet. But he’s still just playing for Bucky.

He starts the next song before he has a chance to think very hard about it. It’s from a trio of two girls and a guy that used to play around in coffee shops and little bars in Brooklyn, never getting as popular as they deserved, despite the incredible vocal harmonies the three produced. This particular song used to tug so hard at Steve’s chest, he often thought he might turn inside out with the pull of it.

It’s an ache, a plea, a fervent wish, for the object of your affection to open up and let you in.

_You were spoken for_  
_I spent twenty lifetimes at your door_  
_But your heart was busy within_  
_Building bomb shelters under your skin_  
_That's the shape I found you in_  
_That's the shape I found you in._

He remembers playing this song for Bucky once before. Bucky had been dating some girl from his European history class. He wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes, even as he praised him for learning it. It seems a long time ago, now.

_You were delivered to me_  
_We were closed as the stores on Christmas Eve_  
_So I felt around in the dark_  
_Building rope ladders into your heart_  
_Climbing hand over hand to get in_  
_That's the shape I found you in_  
_That's the shape I found you in._

When he finishes the song, Steve closes his eyes. He’s scared, suddenly, that he’s gone too far. Overstepped, and in front of everyone. But then he remembers how Bucky looked, cowering against the wall as Brock spewed humiliating vitriol at Bucky, at the band. At Steve. No, Steve’s not overstepping. He’s right where he needs to be.

He climbs out of his bunk and stows his guitar. Before he gets back into bed, he leans in, just at the gap where the curtain almost meets the head of Bucky’s bunk.

“I’m here, Buck. Always.”

Steve thinks he hears a stifled sob, but the curtain doesn’t move, and there’s no response. 

“’Til the end of the line,” he whispers.

Steve gets into his bunk and curls up into his sleeping bag. He pulls his own curtain closed, not wanting to see Sam and Nat giving him questioning looks – or worse, pity. Steve knows Bucky, better than anyone. If this is what he needs right now, a safe, quiet place, with no one looking at him or demanding anything from him, Steve is going to give it to him. 

*****  
In the morning, Bucky emerges from his cocoon a new man. Or, at least, a different one from the night before.

Steve doesn’t actually see him until they go onstage. They had hit traffic on the way to their next destination, and by the time they arrive it’s practically dinner time and they are all ravenous. They pile into the venue, hitting the showers and devouring the pizza and subs Fitz orders for them.

Steve and Sam are on stage, setting up for their first set, when they hear a chorus of squeals from the fans in the hallway. Bucky strides on to the stage, decked out in full Winter Soldier gear - dark blue jacket with straps crossing his chest, brown pants and military style boots. The way he’s got his guitar looped over his shoulder it almost looks like he’s got a rifle slung over his back. 

Bucky steps past Steve, a flicker of something soft as their eyes meet, and then he’s in front of the mic, armed and ready for bear.

“Let’s show them what Nomad’s really made of,” Bucky declares. Nat accepts the challenge immediately, tossing her hair as she strums a few bold chords. 

“Lead on, Sergeant.”

That night Nomad rocks out hard. They open with “You Piss Me Off,” a song Bucky wrote years ago to tease Steve, who was having an ongoing battle with his homophobic calculus professor senior year in college. Then they do a series of three punk numbers, getting more angry and riled up with each one. Bucky throws in a bunch of songs from their new album, but gives them an edgier feel, driving them all to a near explosive conclusion as they wind up their first set.

When they step offstage, they’re all soaked with sweat. Bucky’s eyes are blazing, and he paces from side to side of the green room, not talking to any of them.

Sam goes over to him and Bucky raises his hands, shaking his head. “I’m fine,” he growls. Nat hands Bucky a bottle of water and he downs it in one long gulp.

Fitz comes in, takes one look at the four of them and seems to reassess what he’s about to say.

“The crowd is lovin’ it. Keep up the good work.” He leaves the room, and Nat slouches into a chair, still catching her breath.

Steve walks over to Bucky, who has turned towards the wall, leaning against it with both hands.

“So.” Steve moves closer, lets Bucky turn to see his face. “We’ve got a day off coming up in a few days,” he says lightly. “I was thinking, bowling, maybe?”

Bucky looks at him like he’s just grown two heads. “What?”

“When we get our day off. We could go bowling. Or, I don’t know, see a movie?”

Bucky glares at him, then snorts, a laugh escaping him despite himself. “You suck at bowling.”

“So a movie then.”

“Um, I like bowling,” Sam says, getting with the program. “And laser tag. Can’t remember the last time I had me a good game of laser tag.”

Bucky sinks to the floor, turning around to lean his back against the wall and rest his head in his hands. “You guys are nuts.”

Clint knocks as he pushes the door open. “Five minutes until you’re back on.”

Nat shoots daggers at him with her eyes. “Go away, Clint.”

“What’d I do?” 

“Nah, it’s okay.” Bucky glances towards Steve, who holds out his hand to tug Bucky up to his feet. “Clint, bowling or laser tag?”

Bucky’s still holding on to Steve’s hand, and Steve gives it a squeeze as Sam chimes in. 

“Laser tag, Clint. Vote for laser tag.”

“I’m actually awesome at laser tag,” Clint says. “We could invite the crew, too. Mac definitely looked like he wanted to shoot someone last night.”

Steve feels Bucky tense. “I get the feeling Fitz might prefer it if we stuck to bowling.”

“Why don’t we debate this further after our next set,” Sam suggests, inclining his head towards the clock. “Almost time to go.”

Clint gives them a wave and heads out. 

“Wait,” Bucky says, and Nat and Sam turn towards him. Bucky’s still got Steve by the hand, and he squeezes it back more before releasing it, along with a long breath.

“I’m sorry I went so crazy. I’ll tone it down now, I promise.”

There’s a beat, and then Nat chuckles. “What, only punk enough for half the night? Knew you were getting old.”

Sam slaps Bucky on the shoulder and steers him out of the room. “I’d pretty much give my left nut to see you do ‘You Piss Me Off’ in public again. But maybe not tonight.”

Steve watches them from behind as they head to the stage, Nat and Sam flanking his best friend, teasing him gently. Bucky’s taking it good naturedly, giving it back with just a hint of hesitation. They’re going to be all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song references:  
> Sweet Baby James – James Taylor  
> The Shape I Found you In – Girlyman  
> Original Nomad song – You Piss Me Off


	5. Guitar Solo

Chapter 5 – Guitar Solo

Steve wakes up, the change in the rumble of the engine nudging him out of his cozy dream. He blinks his eyes open, confused, and sticks his head out of his bunk. It’s still nighttime, but Clint has pulled the bus into a rest stop. He can see Clint jogging towards the brightly lit building in front of them, likely looking for a refill on the disgustingly sweet coffee he buys at convenience stores every chance he gets.

Steve fumbles around and finds his phone. It’s not even three in the morning, so he turns over to go back to sleep. Unfortunately his bladder has come awake too, and after a few minutes Steve slides out of bed, landing on the floor with a quiet thump. He nearly bumps into Bucky doing the same thing.

They grin at each other, pull on their sneakers, and make their way out of the bus. The night air is pleasantly warm, and Steve takes deep breaths as they walk over to the building. He loves riding on the bus, but it does get a bit rank of an evening. They’ve been on the road for weeks, and laundry has not been everyone’s highest priority.

The rest stop is just like dozens of others, its crappy pizza and sub shops closed for the night, a zoned out looking employee pushing a broom in between the tables and chairs. Bucky heads straight for the restroom, and Steve follows him.

When Steve comes out, Bucky is looking dejectedly at the row of vending machines.

“No money?” Steve asks. 

Bucky’s wearing a worn t-shirt and sweats, and he looks down at himself, shaking his head so that his long hair swirls around it. “Nope. No pockets.”

Steve’s always loved this particular pair of sweats on Bucky – they cling to his ass quite nicely – so he doesn’t fault them for not containing any cash. Luckily Steve had grabbed his wallet before they got off the bus, and he pulls it out and shows it to Bucky with a smile. They both look over their options, neither of them pointing out that junk food in the middle of the night is not exactly necessary, and settle on a bag of M&M’s, sour cream and onion potato chips, and two sodas.

The rest stop isn’t as quiet as one would expect for the middle of the night. Even the parking lot isn’t particularly empty, although there are only a few cars at the gas pumps. Steve is wondering out loud why all these people are going on overnight road trips when they should be in bed, when Bucky suddenly turns to him, his eyes wide.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s the bus?” 

Steve groans as they both turn around and survey the area. It becomes immediately clear that their tour bus isn’t there. They even walk clear over to the other side of the parking lot and check behind the group of imposing tractor-trailers. No bus. 

“They left without us?” Steve says, finally breaking the silence. Then he repeats it, as it really isn’t a question. “They left without us.”

“Why didn’t you tell Clint we were getting off?” Bucky asks, clearly frustrated.

Steve glares at him. “You were right next to me. You know he got off before we did.”

Bucky waves his arms. “How did he not notice we were gone?”

“I don’t know. How did he get out of here so fast?” Maybe they shouldn’t have stopped to get snacks after all. “Doesn’t matter, I’ll call him.” But Steve’s stomach sinks as he realizes the flaw in this plan – he has his wallet, but his phone is still on the bus, in his bunk, plugged in and charging.

“I don’t suppose…” he looks at Bucky, who just rolls his eyes and points to his sweats again. 

“Still no pockets. And no phone.”

“What do we do now?” Steve asks. He starts to walk back towards the building, and then turns to Bucky, his next plan flying right out the window. “If we borrowed someone’s phone, would you know Clint’s phone number?”

Bucky opens his mouth to respond, and then throws his head back and laughs. “For fuck’s sake, of course I don’t know his phone number. Do you?”

Steve sighs. “No.”

“How about Nat’s? Or Sam’s?”

Steve just shakes his head. “No. Of course not.” He looks up at Bucky. “We’re idiots.” Because why would he bother learning any of his friends’ phone numbers, his phone remembers that sort of thing for him. And he always has his phone.

“Victims of technology?” Bucky suggests.

“No, just idiots.”

There are a few round concrete tables in front of the building, and Steve walks over and takes a seat on one of the curved benches, looking towards the road. “We can call Coulson and get Clint’s number. We know the name of his company.” He pops open one of the sodas and hands it to Bucky, then opens the other for himself.

“Yeah, but he won’t get in until morning.” Bucky nods a thank you and takes a long drink. “Real morning,” he clarifies.

Steve can’t argue with that. Coulson’s usually in the office fairly early, but that’s eight a.m., not four. “Clint will figure it out before then, right? Soon, probably. And come back for us.”

“What if he stops at another rest stop?” Bucky sits down on the bench next to Steve. “He won’t know which one we got lost at.”

“We’re not lost,” Steve protests.

“Um, we kind of are.”

Steve shoves Bucky’s shoulder. “I know exactly where I am.”

Bucky looks at Steve, and somehow the moment changes. “Yeah. Me too.” 

They gaze stupidly at each other for a few seconds, and then Bucky clears his throat and stares back out at the highway. “You were right about Brock.”

Steve has to repeat this over in his head before he understands it, it’s such an unexpected change in topic. He glances at Bucky, his messy hair now tucked behind his ears, face bare of eyeliner but with a scruffy shadow on his cheeks. Bucky’s still looking straight ahead, but even in profile, Steve can see that he’s tense.

Steve has a feeling he knows what Bucky is talking about, but suddenly it’s important not to guess. “What do you mean, that I was right about Brock?”

“He wasn’t good for me.” Bucky’s voice cracks.

“Want to talk about it?” Steve asks softly.

“Not really, but… kind of.”

It’s such a Bucky thing to say, the Bucky from before, who used to tell Steve all kinds of nonsense, no matter what popped into his head. His dreams and his fears, from wanting to be a rock star to whether his mom might really die.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” Steve says, allowing just the tiniest bit of humor into his tone. This clearly isn’t something to make light of. He leans his shoulder against Bucky’s. “And I’d like to listen.”

Bucky nods, and takes a few deep breaths. “It started out fine with Brock. Normal. We weren’t even really dating, just hanging out together. Then it started to get physical. It was okay a few times, not the best, but I figured maybe we just hadn’t gotten to know each other well enough yet. Then Brock started to get…” Bucky’s voice trails off, and his hands clench together into fists where they are resting on the table. “There was a lot of alcohol, usually, and I let it happen, even after I realized I didn’t like it much. It just seemed easier.”

Steve can feel himself trembling, even where his shoulder is pressed against Bucky. He doesn’t want him to know, feels like he shouldn’t be reacting this way, but he doesn’t want to move away.

“One morning I woke up in his bed, hungover as hell, late for rehearsal, and Brock just wanted to fuck again. I wasn’t in the mood, and told him so. He got pissed off, so I tried to end it – told him I was done with his bullshit. He didn’t take it well.”

Bucky pauses, and Steve is frozen, afraid to hear what comes next. “Bucky, did-”

“Just let me finish,” Bucky says, biting his lip. “If I stop, I’m not sure I’ll be able to get it out.”

“It’s ok, sorry,” Steve says. “I’m sorry. Take your time.”

Bucky swallows hard and shakes his head, as if to say that more time won’t help. “He met up with me just after rehearsal one night, after you all had left. I was by myself in the studio. He told me I had to come with him to a show that night, that it was important for my reputation and for Nomad. I argued with him, told him I didn’t want to hang out anymore, but he kept harping on my ‘reputation’ and how without him, it would tank. Finally he told me that if I didn’t cooperate, he’d tell the world about ‘the real Bucky Barnes.’”

“Screw him,” Steve spits out, unable to keep quiet any more. “There’s nothing wrong with the real Bucky Barnes. What could he possibly-”

“He knows about my arrest,” Bucky says, interrupting Steve.

He’s shocked for a moment, but quickly shakes his head. “He can’t. You were a juvenile, that record’s sealed.”

“But he knows. All of it, I don’t know how.” 

“Okay, well, that’s not the end of the world. We-”

“You don’t understand.” Bucky’s voice rises, and he lurches up from the bench, practically stumbling away before he turns back to Steve. “You pretend to, but you don’t understand what I did.”

“Bucky, you didn’t know what you were doing. Your uncle tricked you into it, your mom was sick and you needed a job-”

“I helped them deal drugs, Steve. To kids. I was a fucking drug dealer. I probably got people hooked. Why don’t you get that?” Bucky’s yelling now, but Steve isn’t backing down.

He runs after Bucky, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around. “I know exactly what you did, Bucky, and it wasn’t dealing drugs. You were _not_ a drug dealer. You were delivering packages for your uncle, you thought he was contracting for Amazon. You had no idea what was in those packages, and no way of knowing.”

“But I got the drugs where they needed to go. I did it. Me. What’s the difference if I didn’t mean to?” Bucky pulls away from Steve, but Steve grabs his arm and tugs him back.

“You know there’s a difference, Buck.” Steve tightens his hold on Bucky’s wrist, and Bucky stands still, although he won’t look at Steve. “Everyone knows there’s a difference. That’s why the charges were dropped. That’s why you didn’t go to jail.”

“Well, Brock seemed pretty convinced that our fans wouldn’t know the difference. And he managed to convince me.” Bucky sounds defeated as he says this, and suddenly Steve puts the pieces together.

“He blackmailed you into staying with him.” Steve moves closer to Bucky, letting go of his wrist and sliding his hands up his arms. “Bucky…”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and leans into Steve, his forehead coming to rest on Steve’s shoulder. “I didn’t let him fuck me any more. But he made me… do other stuff. And I think he drugged me, put shit in my drinks. Not sure what happened those nights.”

“Bucky – that’s-” Steve can’t finish his sentence, can hardly finish his thoughts. He’s filled with rage at Brock, at horror over what his friend has endured. “We’ll go to the police. Right away. Tomorrow, I’ll come with you, we’ll…”

“Already did it, pal.”

Steve pulls back, trying to get Bucky to meet his eyes. “You did?”

Bucky nods. “Told Brock it was over, for good, a week or so before we left on tour, and then told the cops the whole story.”

“So – but I saw him at our show – why isn’t he in prison?”

Bucky barks out a laugh. “Because not every case gets prosecuted. Especially when it’s a ‘he-said/he-said,’ and one of the ‘he’s’ is an alcoholic, drug-addicted wanna-be rock star with zero evidence.”

“Bucky, you’re not alcoholic or drug-addicted, and you’re certainly not a wanna-be anything!”

“Tell that to Brock. He was prepared for whatever I might say. Had witness statements from everyone at HYDRA, they were making up all kinds of shit, ruining my credibility. After he told all of that to the district attorney – with his sleazy lawyer by his side – they informed me that there wasn’t enough evidence to make out a case. Advised me to let it go.”

Steve steps away from Bucky, staring at him in amazement. “We’ll fight back. We’ll get our own lawyer. Coulson knows people, he’ll help. That asshole can’t get away with this, Bucky, I won’t let him.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t want to spend any more time thinking about Brock. I told you because I owed it to you to let you in on why I’ve been such a jerk. I hate what you must have thought of me, I was awful…” Bucky loses steam for a moment, but then meets Steve’s gaze, a determined look on his face. “I mean it. I’ve wasted enough time on him. It’s over.”

Steve wants to keep arguing, to yell until Bucky agrees with him, but he sees the sadness in Bucky’s eyes behind his stubbornness, and manages to grab a hold of a thin strand of common sense. It’s not Steve’s decision, and even if he wanted to beg Bucky to rethink it, now is not the time. Not standing in a rest stop parking lot, a few feet away from a dumpster, weary travelers curving away as they try to enter the building without getting two close to two punks having an argument.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Steve says, willing his voice into something approximating a normal tone. He comes closer to Bucky, moving until he is close enough to see his eyes. “And you’re not awful. You’re never awful. Bucky-” Steve’s voice wobbles, and he sucks in a deep breath, tries to keep himself from bursting into tears. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. You didn’t deserve this.”

Bucky is still, only his eyes moving, searching Steve’s face. “Sometimes I think I did.”

Steve shakes his head sharply. “You didn’t.” He swallows hard over the lump in his throat, and thinks back to when Bucky was arrested. They were in high school, and Bucky’s mom was so sick his biggest fear was that he’d be in jail when she died. “Didn’t you tell the authorities everything you knew? Didn’t they shut down the whole dealer network because of your information?”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s eyes glaze over for a moment. “But I let him…”

It hits Steve like a hammer to the chest. Bucky’s not just beating himself up over what he did back in high school. He’s ashamed about what happened with Brock.

“That wasn’t your fault, Buck,” Steve says, pouring all his certainty into his words. “Not your fault at all, not even a little bit. And – you didn’t let him keep going, you stopped him. You put an end to it.”

“I was a coward,” Bucky says, shaking his head.

“You were brave,” Steve insists. He can’t hold back any longer, surging forward and wrapping Bucky into a tight hug. “I can’t imagine how scared you must have been, how much courage it took to go to the police. You called his bluff. You’re amazing, Bucky.”

Bucky protests, but lets Steve hold him, curling his arms around Steve’s waist, pressing his palms into his back. “I’m sorry, Stevie,” Bucky mumbles into Steve’s neck. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

“Bullshit,” Steve responds, not letting go. “Since when have you ever done anything before you were good and ready? You told me now, that’s enough for me.”

Bucky sniffs hard and they stand there in the parking lot, hanging on to each other, until a movement in the corner of Steve’s eye distracts him. He pulls back, and Bucky looks at him in a daze, then turns to see what Steve is looking at.

It’s their bus.

“Steve, don’t tell anyone-”

“’Course not,” Steve says, wiping his eyes and watching Bucky do the same. “We’ve just been sitting here eating M&M’s and watching the sun rise. Nothing to tell.” 

The sun is in fact rising, casting a dim glow over the pavement, and triggering the lights in the parking lot to flicker on and off as they struggle to decide whether it is in fact daytime. 

The bus pulls to a stop and the door folds open. Clint looks down at them, exasperated.

“Would it kill you to let me know next time?” Clint says, hardly whispering as they climb on board. 

“Sorry, dad,” Bucky mutters as he walks by. 

They go back to their bunks, and Steve slides into his first. Before Bucky climbs up into his, he reaches down and grabs Steve’s shoulder, giving it a hard squeeze. “Good talk,” Bucky says, the rasp in his voice betraying his attempt at nonchalance.

“Jerk,” Steve jokes, putting his hand over Bucky’s where it’s still on his shoulder.

“Punk,” Bucky replies.

“For fuck’s sake, stop flirting and go to sleep,” Natasha hisses at them. 

Steve hopes Bucky can’t see him blush. It’s unlikely, given that it’s mostly still dark out. Nonetheless, he’s caught entirely by surprise when Bucky leans down and brushes a barely there kiss across Steve’s forehead before climbing up into his own bunk.


	6. Second Verse

Chapter 6 – Second Verse

The next few days are remarkably normal, except for what Steve tries not to characterize as a certain _fondness_ coming from Bucky. It’s in the little things – Bucky throwing his favorite songs into their sets, helping him set up the equipment even when it isn’t his turn, sitting just a bit closer when they pile into a diner for lunch. Steve tries to catch his eye, to confirm that he isn’t just dreaming it up, but he can’t quite be sure. He decides to just let it happen. If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be, or something like that. 

In the meantime, Steve basks in the knowledge that his Bucky is back again. His best friend, who appears to be gradually becoming open to something more between them. Steve can’t remember being happier.

One afternoon when they have some free time Steve goes out to the bus to get his repair kit. Sam’s kick drum pedal has been squeaking like crazy, and Steve can’t stand it anymore. He tried to get Sam to hang around and do some maintenance on the kit before it got worse, but Sam just waved a hand at him and took off with Mac to check out a comic book store in town that is supposedly the best thing ever. 

Steve figures he can do Sam a good turn and fix the pedal for him as a surprise, but when he climbs into the bus, it’s Steve that gets the surprise.

There’s someone in Bucky’s bunk, and he’s not alone, going by the movement of the curtains. Steve has a momentary flash of heartbreak, before he realizes that Bucky is still back in the club and can’t possibly be fooling around with anyone in the bus right now. But that means that someone else is getting it on in Bucky’s bunk, and that simply can’t be allowed to continue.

Steve grabs the curtain and pulls it open, only to be met with a clear view of Clint’s naked ass.

“Oh, man, really?” He steps back, hand coming up over his eyes. Probably should have rethought that plan.

There’s a long sigh, and Steve braces himself. It’s not just Clint in the bunk, obviously, but he had thought – hoped – they were past this.

“Can we help you?” Natasha asks, voice dry as dust. 

“What the hell are you doing in Bucky’s bunk?” Steve spits out, finally remembering why he’s there. “That is not cool.”

Clint rolls to the side to face Steve. Steve kind of wants to throw a blanket on him, although that would be Bucky’s blanket, and it wouldn’t really make the situation any better.

“Nat’s bed is full of merch.” There are, in fact, new boxes of t-shirts piled up on Nat’s bunk, although they are obviously not fastened there with glue.

“What’s wrong with your bunk?” Steve asks Clint.

“Smells gross,” Natasha replies for him.

“You guys are terrible,” Steve says. “When Bucky finds out-”

“He’s not going to find out,” Natasha says.

“No? You really think I’d agree to that?” Steve really can’t believe this. Natasha prides herself on her ‘I don’t give a shit’ attitude, but this is a step too far.

“You will.” Natasha contorts her lithe body (still clad in black lingerie) and grabs a folder lying by the foot of the bed. “Here.”

Steve takes the folder from her and opens it up. There’s a list on top, with numbers next to each pair of names.

“What’s this?”

“Bus needs maintenance. We’re staying at a motel for the next three nights.”

Steve looks at the list. Room 32 is assigned to him and Bucky.

“This is great, obviously,” Steve says, averting his eyes from where Clint is now sucking at Natasha’s collarbone. “But what does this have to do about me not telling Bucky that you guys are defiling his bunk?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, as if Steve is the dumbest guy on the planet. “I made the list. I can change it. So if you want to room with Mac and Quill in the triple, I can switch you and Sam. No problem.”

Steve opens his mouth to argue that Natasha isn’t in charge, but realizes immediately that would be pointless. She probably is, and even if she wasn’t, she’d find a way to convince Fitz to change the room assignments.

“We’ll make sure everybody does laundry tomorrow,” Clint says, taking his mouth off Natasha for long enough to make this promise. “He won’t ever know.”

Natasha pulls Clint back over her, and slides a hand down his back. “Close the curtain now, please,” she says to Steve.

Steve does, not that it matters. He’s not exactly going to hang around. Steve’s back in their rehearsal room before he realizes he forgot the repair kit. Letting out a long sigh, he googles the address of the comic book store Mac and Sam went to. Might as well enjoy what’s left of the afternoon.

*****  
Bucky comes out of the shower in their motel room, in tight jeans and nothing else. He grins at Steve as he pushes through the people seated on the floor, beds, and any other available surface. The music is loud enough to make any rational hotel guests complain, but they’ve got a group of rooms at the end of the row and no one is likely to call the cops on them tonight. 

Bucky gives up on trying to get his duffel bag out from where Quinn is using it as a pillow and deposits himself, shirtless and hair still dripping, next to Steve on the floor. Steve’s got his electric guitar on his lap, so his body’s natural reaction to 160 pounds of muscle and damp skin isn’t obvious to the rest of the room, but from the smirk Natasha gives him, he’s probably not fooling anyone.

Bucky clearly doesn’t have a problem with it, however, reaching across Steve to grab a beer from Mac. Bucky even shakes his head a little, getting his wet hair in Steve’s face, taking his time to right himself.

“All right, everyone’s here, let’s get this party started,” Fitz says, standing up. Steve is pretty sure the party is already started, but he’s curious to see what Fitz thinks is lacking.

Fitz starts to explain something, his phone in his hand, and Steve realizes he’s not going to pull out some erudite saying or provide them with some of his favorite Scottish whiskey. No, Fitz wants them to play a party game.

When the moans of protest swell, Fitz switches off the music and literally shakes his finger at them. “You don’t think you’ll like it, but you will. I promise you.”

Somehow a promise with a Scottish accent sounds more believable than the regular kind, and Fitz has yet to let them down, so Steve’s on board. “Come on, team, let’s do it. How bad can it be?”

Quill starts to tell some kind of story to illustrate just how bad it can be, but Fitz gives him a stern look and he shuts up.

“Who wants to go first?” Fitz asks. “Or are you all too chicken?”

Natasha unwinds herself from the corner of the bed and picks her way over to Fitz. “I’ll go.”

A few minutes later, the party is back in full swing, chiming in as Natasha belts out her best Pat Benetar. _Heartbreaker, dream maker, love taker don’t you mess around with me._ She’s utterly convincing, and Steve can’t help but wonder what Clint thinks of it. But he’s beaming and shouting out the lyrics with everyone else, apparently only more turned on as Nat rocks harder and harder.

Mac goes next. Steve tries to pay attention this time, as he completely missed the rules before Nat started singing. Fitz gives the player a letter, from which the player selects a band. Then another letter, and the player has to come up with a song by the band and sing it. Fitz reminds the group that he will give them hints if they need them, to which Mac scoffs and announces what he’s going to sing.

“Way Down We Go, by Kaleo.”

Steve has only heard the Icelandic blues band a few times, but Mac more than does this song justice. _You let your feet run wild, time has come as we all oh, go down, yeah but for the fall, oh my, do you dare to look him right in the eye?_

Steve exchanges a look with Bucky. They had no idea Mac could sing like this, deep and intense. “Guest spot?” Steve whispers, ignoring how Bucky’s hair feels on his face as he comes in close enough for Bucky to hear him.

Bucky nods and leans his shoulder into Steve’s. “Damn straight.”

Quill goes next. He doesn’t have the musical chops that Mac does, but he gets everyone up and dancing with the Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back.” Fitz grabs Natasha and spins her around, and they do a little back-up dancer show behind Quill. _Oh, baby give me one more chance – to show you that I love you – won’t you please let me back in your heart._

Steve spends most of the song trying not to look at Bucky (he can’t very well sing “trying to live without your love is one long sleepless night” without completely losing his shit) but he’s seriously amped up by the time Quill finishes. He volunteers to go next, practically tackling Fitz in the process. 

Fitz does something with his phone and shows him the screen. “P.” Steve wracks his brain for a band that starts with P, until he sees Sam looking at the phone over his shoulder.

“Can I help you, officer?” Sam whispers. Steve gets it.

“The Police,” Steve tells Fitz. Fitz nods and presses another spot on his phone. “R.”

Steve whoops, and grabs his guitar. This is perfect. He starts playing the opening chords, bouncing up and down a little on his feet, and then starts singing. _Roxanne. You don’t have to put on the red light. Those days are over, you don’t have to sell your body to the night._

Steve is in his element, playing an awesome song, having a great time as his friends all sing along. He rocks through the chorus, and gets to the second verse. _I loved you since I knew ya, I wouldn’t talk down to ya. I have to tell you just how I feel, I won’t share you with another boy. I know my mind is made up, so put away your make-up. I told you once, I won’t tell you again it’s a bad way. Roxanne…_

He’s avoided looking at Bucky, for once again obvious reasons. Bucky always loved The Police, he figures he’s loving this song too. Right around the same time it occurs to him that he can’t hear Bucky singing, he notices Nat is making sort of an odd face at him. He scans the room, turning, looking for where Bucky had been dancing. The chorus is going on and on, and Steve is begging Roxanne not to put on the red light for the dozenth time, when Steve realizes Bucky isn’t there. 

Everyone cheers as he finishes the song, and Steve tries to play it cool, but as soon as Sam steps up to take a turn he’s out the door. “Bucky?” he calls out, and starts walking down the sidewalk. “Buck?”

He can’t have gone far – they don’t have any cars with them, and hopefully Bucky wasn’t so desperate to get away that he bothered to call an Uber. Steve is just about to go inside and check out the skeezy bar when he sees Bucky pacing in front of the motel office.

“Bucky,” he calls again, jogging over to him. “Why’d you leave?”

“Get the fuck away from me,” Bucky growls out, waving his hand at Steve and walking away, a bottle of something decidedly alcoholic swinging from his grip.

Steve halts, his stomach dropping. “What? What’s going on?”

Bucky turns, and his face looks sickly in the light seeping out the office window. “Can’t believe you’d – you’re such a fucking liar. Serves me right, thinking anything different.”

Steve’s head is spinning. “Bucky, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bucky steps close enough that he can smell the gin on his breath. “You called me a whore, Steve. Gotta right to be mad about that, don’t ya think?”

“I – I did no such thing, Bucky. What the hell?” 

But Bucky isn’t listening, maybe he can’t even listen, he’s so angry. “Fuck you, asshole. Fuck you and all your high and mighty principles. Just-” Bucky’s voice trembles, and he’s not yelling anymore. He’s begging. “Leave me alone, all right? Leave me alone.” Bucky strides off, and Steve doesn’t follow him, just stands there on the sidewalk, his heart cracked open and bleeding onto the street.

After a few minutes, Steve goes back to his room. He’s not sure what else to do. Nat takes one look at him when he comes inside, and immediately announces that the party is over. Thankfully no one questions her – it’s almost two in the morning, and they have a show the next night, so it’s not unthinkable that they should call it a night. Nat orders Clint and Sam to clean up, and then comes over and gives Steve a hug. She gives remarkably good hugs for someone so small. 

“I don’t know what I did,” Steve whines into Natasha’s hair.

“Probably nothing,” she says, pulling back and squeezing his shoulders. 

“Can you – can you go look for him? He’s really upset.”

Nat tilts her head. “What, did you think I was going to let him wander the streets alone? Don’t worry, we’ve got his back.” 

She hustles Sam and Clint out the door, laden with empties and half-eaten bags of chips, and sends a last look over her shoulder at Steve.

“Get some sleep. He’ll be okay.”

Maybe, Steve thinks. But I won’t.

Steve strips down to his boxers and gets into bed. He thinks for a few minutes that he’s too miserable to sleep, but apparently that’s not a thing, at least not after all the beer and assorted other adult beverages he had consumed over the past few hours. 

The next thing he knows the bed is shifting, and there’s a warm weight pressed against his back.

“Bucky?” Steve mumbles, and an arm comes around over his chest and hugs him tight.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, his voice high and tight. “I’m really sorry.”

“Bucky,” Steve breathes out, and turns in Bucky’s arms to face him. It’s still dark out, but there’s enough light coming in from the street that he can see how Bucky’s trying not to cry. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Bucky scrunches up his face and presses it against Steve’s chest, hanging on to his shoulders like he’s a life raft. 

Steve holds him, forcing his brain to wake up enough to possibly not say the wrong thing. But he keeps going round and round on what Bucky said earlier, and he can’t let it go.

“Buck, you know I don’t think you’re a whore, right?” The word sounds awful in his ears. “You know there’s no goddamn way in this world I could think that of you.”

Bucky shrugs, face still pressed against Steve. “The song’s about one.”

“I wasn’t singing about you.” Steve huffs out a breath, a little exasperated. “I had to pick a song starting with the letter ‘R’ by The Police. What would you have picked?”

Bucky shrugs again. “’Re-Humanize Yourself’ starts with R.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, that’s the first Police song that jumps into my head. How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

There’s a pause. “Might have taken a few minutes.”

“And a quick google search.”

“Don’t need to google Police songs, Steve. Don’t you know me at all?”

Steve knows Bucky was just joking, but he lets his words sit there for a long moment before he answers. “Yeah, Buck. I know you.”

Bucky looks up at Steve, half relieved and half embarrassed. “I know. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not looking for an apology,” Steve says. “I just want to make sure you know how I feel.”

Bucky freezes, his expression going blank. “How do you feel?”

A shiver runs through Steve, and he thinks that this is it. If he doesn’t say it now, they’ll be going back and forth like this forever, an endless chorus without any resolution. He’s got to jump.

“I love you, Bucky. I love you.”

Bucky squeezes his eyes together, like he’s going to cry again, and Steve figures at least he jumped – even if it was without a parachute, at least he knows. “It’s okay if you don’t, I get it, you never felt that way-”

Bucky’s eyes go wide, and then he’s slamming his mouth against Steve’s, kissing him like Steve has never been kissed before. Steve feels it all the way down to his toes, like an electric current running through his entire body.

When Bucky pulls back, he runs a hand through Steve’s hair, almost frantic. “I love you too, Steve. I do. I love you too.”

Steve feels his face stretching with a ridiculous grin. “Good, then. That’s – that’s really good.”

Bucky bites his lip, his eyes lightening with a touch of humor. “Good? Only good?”

“You ass.” Steve grabs Bucky and pulls him close, rocking him tight against him. “I was worried about you tonight. You gotta stop running away from me.”

“I was scared,” Bucky says, and Steve’s blood chills. He can’t be another person in Bucky’s life that hurts him.

“Scared of me?” he whispers.

“No, no, never,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “I just – I thought things were going well, right? That we were getting closer to… you know, this – and then that song, for a minute I just thought it was all in my head.” Bucky’s voice has gotten quiet, and Steve can barely hear him when he continues. “That you didn’t think of me the way you used to, since I told you about Brock. That you didn’t really want me.”

Steve cradles Bucky’s cheeks in his hands and shifts until he can look him in the eyes. “I want you, Bucky Barnes. Don’t you ever doubt it. It’s always been you.” He leans in and presses his mouth to Bucky’s, soft but sure. Bucky lets out a little sigh against his lips, and kisses back, winding a foot around Steve’s leg and dragging them even closer together.

It was just supposed to be a gentle kiss, full of reassurance and love, but then Bucky’s breath hitches just as Steve’s about to pull away, and Steve goes back for more. Bucky lets out a desperate little moan, and Steve’s gone, letting himself touch and taste and revel in the wonder that is Bucky Barnes in his arms.

Steve doesn’t know how long they go on until they have to part to breathe properly, both of them panting and grinning like fools. Steve stretches around to grab his phone and check the time. It’s not even four in the morning. He can’t fathom how so much has happened so fast.

Bucky’s staring at him, gorgeous and rumpled and right there in his bed. “Why don’t you take all that off,” he says, waiving his hand at Bucky. Bucky stills, suddenly looking nervous, and Steve smiles at him, going all mushy. “Not for anything like that, you dope. Just figured you didn’t want to fall asleep in your jeans.”

Bucky face plants against the pillow, then pushes himself up and starts to undo his belt buckle. “How long do you think I’ll be an awkward mess with you?” he asks, almost to himself, climbing back into bed with Steve when he’s down to a t-shirt and boxers. 

Steve shrugs, and slides closer to Bucky, putting his head on his shoulder and an arm around his waist. “Don’t care. Be however you want. It’s not going to change anything.”

Bucky presses his forehead against Steve’s, his hand coming up to rest on Steve’s bicep. “You mean that, don’t you?”

Steve nods against Bucky’s chest. “Yup.”

Bucky gives Steve a squeeze. “Did I mention I love you?”

“You may have.”

“Good. Because I do.”

Steve lifts his head and kisses where he can reach without moving, the underside of Bucky’s jaw, the salty skin of his neck. “Love you too, Buck.”

“When we wake up…” Bucky stops, searching for words, and then soldiers on. “When we wake up, will it still be like this?”

Steve feels his chest clench. He knows who’s to blame for Bucky’s newfound insecurity, and he doesn’t like it one bit. But getting angry isn’t going to help anybody right now. “Just like this. But – if you’re lucky, we’ll also have…”

“What?” Bucky asks, curiosity overcoming nerves.

“Coffee. Lots of coffee.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song references:  
> Heartbreaker - Pat Benetar  
> Way Down We Go – Kaleo  
> I Want You Back – Jackson 5  
> Roxanne – The Police


	7. Coda

Chapter 7 - Coda

Nomad does well on their tour. They even make a little profit, which is more than most bands at their level can say. Bucky attributes this to their die-hard fans, while Steve thinks it’s more likely that it was Fitz’s thrifty habits, but either way, the record label is pleased.

So is Coulson, as he informs them at their first meeting back in New York. It got off to a rocky start, Steve unwilling to let Brock’s assault on Bucky go, insisting that they tell Coulson everything. Steve and Bucky started arguing about it – again – right there in Coulson’s office, until Coulson got them to calm down. Upon hearing it all, he turned to Bucky and asked if he wanted him to get involved, to set up a meeting with a prosecutor friend he knew, or help him find a lawyer. Bucky told him no, in no uncertain terms.

Steve, of course, blew up, and Coulson blew up right back at him, except for Coulson, blowing up means speaking in devastatingly stern tone, not yelling like the banshee Steve had started to resemble. “Give him the dignity of his decision, Steve. This isn’t about you.”

Later they would come to learn that soon after their meeting with Coulson, Brock had been summarily fired from his job with HYDRA, and wasn’t able to get anyone in the music industry to hire him except a third-rate outfit that operated out of Omaha. Steve wasn’t sad to see him go.

Now they’re on their way to the studio, Bucky insisting that the two of them spend some time working on new music together before they bring Sam and Nat in. It’s a brisk fall day, and Steve is glad for Bucky’s arm around his shoulders as they walk down the street. And his new jacket helps, too – brown leather with a shearling collar, a one-month anniversary present from Bucky he claims to have found in a thrift shop.

If you had told Steve a year ago that Bucky would be giving him anniversary presents, he would have never believed it. But he’s more than happy to accept it now.

Sure, their relationship is new. But by other measures, it’s been around forever. Tale as old as time, childhood friends turned to lovers. 

They’re assigned the same practice room they used last year, but it’s different now. Bucky’s warm and smiling at Steve, face open, hands constantly coming up to touch him and pull him in for a kiss. Steve can hardly let him go to tune his guitar, but finally they’re ready to get to work.

“Any particular reason you didn’t want Sam and Nat here?” Steve asks. 

Bucky grins at him, waggles his eyebrows and makes a lewd motion with his hand.

Steve laughs. “Other than the obvious?” While he’s not about to actually have sex in the studio, he did figure that some serious making out was likely to happen.

Bucky’s expression turns thoughtful, and he squares his shoulders, like he’s worried he’ll have to defend himself. “Had some ideas for our next album. Do something a little different.”

“Oh? What?”

Bucky blushes, then clears his throat and looks up at Steve. “Thought we might include some love songs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know if you enjoyed the story!


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